Not waving but drowning.
–Stevie Smith
Rage ran below the surface
of that aging river. Red rock cliffs
sheared the edge of the far
bank, but I sat on the other
side, grassy shade a perfect
spot to frame the rapids, rocks,
and cobalt sky. I unwrapped
my sandwich, took a bite.
Upstream two kayaks skirted
round an eddy, then skimmed
a stone’s throw from my picnic.
I thrust my hand into the air.
“Helllloooo!!” I hollered through
the din of riffles’ randy play.
The woman smiled and paddled
straight ahead. The man turned
his torso toward me, lifted
the blade above his head
in salutation. The water found
its chance: Rivers do not care
about our need for balance or air.
They hurry on, pull asunder
what does not float. “My husband!
My — husband!” the woman shouted
when the empty vessel shot
past her, heading where the current
called. Those of us on shore
leapt up, barely comprehending
what we’d seen. People fanned
out to find a rope. Another shed
her clothes and dove dead in
to the drift. Others warned not to let
the flailing man grab on. “He’ll take
you down!—” a woman pointed
at her half-nude boyfriend halfway
in the drink. What was I to do?
No seasoned swimmer, I
stood by while others saved
the man I’d downed. When they
finally hauled him (pale and choking)
from the cold, he staggered up
the bank, propped between
his wife and a younger man.
I could not look him in the eye.
Is ignorance (or innocence)
grounds for blame? I love
the swell of marching bands,
parades and trains. Herds
of running horses, bands of geese.
I wave at all of them.
I ’d wave again.